Albedo
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "She listens for birds and insects and skittering things. She can't name them. She's a stranger here, however long she stays." Set during Rise (4x01). A kind of prequel to Analemma.


Title: Albedo

WC: ~1700

Rating: K+

Summary: "She listens for birds and insects and skittering things. She can't name them. She's a stranger here, however long she stays." Set mid-Rise (4 x 01).

A/N: I've had this hanging around for a while. I realize now it's something of a prequel to "Analemma"

* * *

It's the middle of the night. It's the middle of nowhere. No beginning or ending to anything.

She works at the loose board with her toe. It's dumb. There's a sharp end to it. A splinter and a worn-out nail worrying at her skin, even through the thick wool of stolen socks.

But it's seductive. There's a draw to it. Predictability she craves when everything in the world has turned on her. She finds it in the warped parallels of the porch slats and this. The flaw in it all. Pressure and give beneath even the weak flex of of her ankle. Something, at least, that gives under what little force she can bring to bear.

She closes her eyes and listens for it. The rhythm she makes underneath the rest. Her addition to this melody. She sifts through the melange of calls beneath the reliable creak of weakened wood. She hears every buzz. Each one a discrete thing if she's careful enough. If she really hears the squeal and hiss. The rusty wire drag she would have called a chirp a month ago. She knows better now.

It's late. Just this side of early.

She listens for birds and insects and skittering things. She can't name them. She's a stranger here, however long she stays. However much she might once have been a part of this. Now, she's a creature of the city, and she'd never be able to name them. Still, she knows the rise and fall of them after all these weeks. The call and response and the way one hour's song ends and another begins.

That's how she knows it's late. The fevered pitch of this part of the song, bound to die away soon. Some part of her is anxious. There are echoes here of what she should feel. Long ago and far-away worries that tell her it's late. That she should try to sleep. That there's healing to do and a life waiting for her. That she has to at least try.

But it's lost. Everything away from here is a fiction.

She closes her eyes. Opens them again, and it makes no difference. The clouds are thick. It's been pattering rain on and off since she gave up n the night. On the stillness that should come with it.

_For now_, she tells herself. _For tonight._

But surrender stretches out around her. It's not just this night she's given in to. She's soaked in patches. One shoulder and the bare strip of skin at her hip where her shirt pulls up. She's freezing, and it's late.

There darkness is unrelieved by moon or stars, and they're no help any way. It's all alien to her. The sky circles overhead. Cold pinpricks in the black some night, or soft, dull grey like this, with the lesser lights of heaven obscured. Neither state of affairs tells her much. She's long since come to be a stranger here, though she belonged here once. A girl named Katie did, anyway.

But she knows it's late when the door creaks. When the hook at the top clatters as her dad pops it free with a well-placed fist to the frame.

She turns with an apology on her lips that he's already waving away. He holds a mug out to her, and she smiles. Dips her head and pulls the warmth of it to her chest. She lets it soothe the scar. She imagines it does, anyway. Nothing soothes it, really. Nothing at all, but she has to believe this does some good. This place. The quiet. Her dad. A warm mug and unconditional love.

"Thanks," she manages. Her voice is gritty. Unused. They don't talk much, the two of them. And it's late, after all.

"Just cocoa." He settles on the step next to her.

His feet come to rest side by side with hers. One, two with a tired sigh and the heavy thunk of boots. He's dressed, of course. Flannel and denim and the red laces done all the way up. Double-knots like he taught her years ago.

She thinks again about apologizing. Instead, she accepts what he offers. She swallows it down with a burning, soft sip and tries not to let him see that even this hurts. The effort of swallowing. The expansion of cells that comes with heat. They both pretend he doesn't see.

It makes him unhappy when she apologizes. When she thanks him for all he's done for her. All he's doing. There's a stiffness. Formality in her that she can't shake, and it hurts him. So she swallows the apology down with another sip, smaller still.

"Cocoa," she says instead. "Nothing better."

"I wish that were true." He nudges her toe with his.

He scowls at the wet socks—his, of course—but it's for show. This is how they talk. How they don't talk in well-worn ways. He nags her about the little things. Stealing his socks and the way she leaves his books face down to mark her place. They bicker and skim over the surface because it's all they can do. Because there's too much underneath.

"I wish that were still true," he says, and it's another kind of surrender. Acknowledgment that it's late for them both in more ways than one.

"Dad . . . " She trails off. He doesn't push. And it's not what he's doing now, exactly. It's just that she's empty. A one-sided conversation in progress.

"Something for it," he says suddenly. He gestures to the mug. "That'd be better. A kick to help you sleep. I don't keep anything . . . it's too tempting out here alone."

"Dad . . . That's . . . " She shakes her head. Hopes the darkness hides her surprise. It's not his fault. None of this is his fault, but she can't say that. They don't talk like this. They don't talk.

"I don't . . . I couldn't anyway. The medication," she says, finally. She tries to smile. It hurts. The tug at her ribs as she tries at least to turn toward him. The burn of shame because it's a retreat from this. From the new path he's trying to set them on.

"Except . . ." He draws in a breath. He soldiers on, and she realizes suddenly that he's afraid. She makes him afraid. "Except you don't take the medication, Katie."

"I _do!"_ The denial comes instantly. Like an echo that's years old. Fighting with her mom and him trying to run interference. "I did . . ." She trails off. Stares down at her feet. At sodden, stolen socks and the broken hump of the board.

"You have nightmares." He holds up a hand. Wards off her denial before she makes it. The apology that comes next. "I know, Katie. I know that hurts worse."

She's silent. She can give him that at least. She can. . . . not pretend with him at the very least.

"I'd do anything for you." He stares into the distance. Out over earth silvered with rain and the trees bowing their heavy heads. Into the lightless beyond. She nods miserably, though she doubts he even sees. "I'd hoped . . . I wish this was good for you. The quiet. But it's not. I'm no good to you."

"Dad, that's not true."

It comes spilling out. Apologies. Denials. Gratitude for everything he's done. Silent and unquestioning, though she knows he wishes other things for her. She knows he thinks there are kinder ways to heal.

It's more words than she's spent in a month and she's weak with it. She sinks against him in the end. Raises her arms as high as she can. An awkward embrace that's painful and relieves something deep in her at the same time. He chafes her hands in his own and she wonders how long it's been since she's touched anyone out of something other than need. Dependency and the disgust for it that boils beneath her skin

He murmurs to her. Stammering consolation, because this isn't him. This isn't her, and it never has been. There are empty places all around them, and she misses her mother. Keenly. Abruptly. Deeply.

"I miss her, too," he says as though she's spoken.

She hasn't, though. It's simply a constant, though it's been years since either one of them has given voice to it that way. It's catharsis, plainly said like that.

They lapse into silence again. More comfortable, this time, if more than a little worn out, too. The sun is coming up. Or the sky is lightening, anyway. It's moving on from late to early, and the forest sings a different song.

He pushes to his feet. She looks up too fast and her scars burn. Her fingers curl tight over the center of it, a defensive gesture that dies when she meets his eyes. She lets her hand fan out. She presses hard and feels the lines around her mouth like they're carved in wood. She doesn't hide them.

"It hurts," says simply, her face turned upward. "And I'm tired."

It makes him smile, the truth of it. Sad, but a lift at the corners of his mouth.

"Come in soon?" He presses a little. Pushes, and it's good that he can. That he's still willing. "Maybe try to sleep?"

"Soon." She gives him a small nod. She turns back to the darkness, lightening now. The world beyond is waking, but sleep doesn't seem quite so absurd. She makes a promise of sorts. "I'll try."

He bends to press a kiss to the top of her head. He turns for the house. He's halfway through the door when he turns back. She feels him study her, though she's still facing out. Watching the woods come to a different kind of life.

"I wish you'd call him, Katie."

He doesn't linger. He's gone before her name dies away.

"I wish I could," she says to the darkness lightening now.


End file.
